


Drabble

by Everlind



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silver Pair meets up after being years apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drabble

It is summer.

Ohtori feels strangely disconnected as he wanders along the food and game stalls. Not in a bad way, actually. It just seems as though his stands in his own bubble of introspection, more sensitive to what is happening and how it all hinges into a great whole as opposed to the people streaming by him caught up in the moment.

It's not quite dark yet, just an haze of evening in the air. Lanterns strung overhead are red blue and orange, leading the way towards the river. If he wants a nice spot to watch the fireworks he ought to head down and secure it, but the bustle and laughter caught between the streets is oddly soothing.

He thinks about heading towards the temple, maybe do a few sketches to try and capture the atmosphere when he walks into him.

Almost.

They recognize each other a heartbeat before they knock together, that same old awareness of the other they had on the court flaring up like cold fire. Maybe that hurts more than the look that flashes across Shishido's face -anger, reservation. His hair is different, tousled across his forehead and longer overall, but it retrains its careless disarray. He's thinner and leaner, as though all excess has been sloughed away until only the core remains, leaving him to walk in a small circle of his own fizzling energy. His face-

No, still the same.

Just guarded now.

"Choutarou," he says, voice low.

"Hi," he says stupidly, not sure whether the familiar use of his name is to needle him or simply because it's what he's always done. "How have you been?"

A muscle near Shishido's eye jumps. "Alright," he says. "You?"

No words for that. Ohtori opens his mouth and exhales, then just shrugs.

Something loosens in Shishido's eyes. The lantern lights make his hair glint red and auburn, pools deep shadows along the muscles of his throat and his collarbone. Looking at the sharp, territorial arch of his shoulder makes Ohtori recall the taste of his skin on his tongue. He knows Shishido is perfectly aware of this. It's in the way his lips part, his eyes cringe away, towards the ground.

His heart doesn't knock faster as much as it knocks harder. Like it is trying to bash its way out through his chest.

"Ryou!" A guy about their age all but leaps into Shishido's neck, grinning. "We lost you."

"Did you?" Shishido's smiling a little and he looks over the other's arm towards a group of people some ways ahead. He waves, effecting a goofy cheerful smile and the others laugh and wave back just as stupidly. Ohtori thinks he catches the red of Mukahi's hair.

Then the both of them swerve back to look up at Ohtori, the boy apparently in no great rush to let go of Shishido. He's handsome in a sharp way, like Shishido is, short black hair and dark eyes.

Shishido sighs and juts his chin towards Ohtori. "That's Choutarou."

A pause.

" _The_  Choutarou?" he asks, mouth making an 'o' of wonder.

Shishido rolls his eyes. "Yes, fuckass,  _The_  Choutarou."

An impish grin. Smiles come easy to this one. Ohtori wonders where they met. "I'll be over there with rest. Holler if you need me to hold your hand." With a wink he slides away.

"Asshole," Shishido tells him amiably enough.

"Faceache," the other retorts and bounds away. When he arrives at the others he body-barrels into them all. Shouts of protest reach them. A high pitched yowl sets their teeth on edge. Definitely Mukahi.

Shishido's mouth twitches despite himself, but then he looks back up to Choutarou, expression solemn. It's been a more than a year since Shishido last smiled at him. No, the last they managed to make each other do was hurt. He'd never seen Shishido-san cry and he wishes he could somehow take that back.

He doesn't know how.

"I'm sorry," Shishido suddenly says, staring hard at Choutarou's chest. His throat works convulsively.

"Me, too," Ohtori says. "I shouldn't have-"

Shishido makes a noise and he falls silent. "It's both our fault," he says roughly, but not unkindly. "I should go," he adds hastily, inclining his head towards his friends.

He nods, probably, does something, because Shishido looks one last time at him before twisting around to go.

Ohtori watches him, watches him walk away a second time, and he forgets to breathe. It's stupid, but he just  _can't_ , can't inhale, exhale, just open his mouth on the gaping pain and then he's shouting Shishido's name and going after him.

He grabs both his shoulders and shakes him a little. "Look," he begins. "I've missed you." It falls of his tongue as though it's been sitting there all along, waiting.

Shishido's carefully not looking at him. "Choutarou. We can't- I mean."

"No," he snaps and Shishido jumps a little. He's probably squeezing to hard, the muscles under his palms are tense and taut. "No, listen. I miss… I miss  _you_. I miss being around you. I miss talking to you. I miss that you always listen, even when I'm talking about music and you don't understand a word I'm saying. I miss having to nag at you because you never tend to your scrapes and they always get infected and I miss having to smack your hands so you don't pick at the scabs. I miss the way you roll your eyes when I do and I miss the way you tell me off for being lame. I miss the way you hum along to music even though your English is so terrible. I miss arguing about whether cats or dogs are the best. I miss playing Mariokart with you, even though you always cheat. I miss that you came to my concerts despite having to dress up nice. I miss having someone who just… understood. I…"

He inhales. Shishido is staring wide-eyed up at him.

"I miss tennis with you."

His hands drop away and his mouth is dry. When it sinks in what he's just done his face heats up unbearably.

Shishido goldfishes at him, blinks and then, miraculously, smiles. Ruefully, but it's there and it's real. "Geez. Choutarou, you're so damn  _lame_. Seriously."

And then he's laughing, but it's sort of thick and jagged and weird, until Shishido tiptoes so he can hug him properly. That shuts him up. He's probably squeezing too hard again, but Shishido doesn't seem to mind. Besides, the hands wound in the fabric over his back are trembling, too. It's different. Odd that Shishido -his Shishido- feels different after a year, slender but tougher, sharper. But he still smells the same. Ohtori closes his eyes.

"Are you here by yourself?" Shishido asks, voice muffled into the cotton of Ohtori's shirt.

Not trusting his voice, he nods. Dark hair tickles along his cheek.

"Okay," Shishido says and pulls away. "I think we got room for one more."

With a grin he starts walking backwards towards the group, watching Ohtori compose himself for a moment before turning around properly and calling, "You coming?"

"H-hai," he manages and runs to catch up with him.


End file.
